


Holt Fast, My Love

by SteeleHoltingOn



Series: RS Alternate Universe: We Wish It Would Have Happened This Way [3]
Category: Remington Steele (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteeleHoltingOn/pseuds/SteeleHoltingOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura vanishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost

“What do you mean, ‘She hasn’t called in.’?” Remington demanded.  He’d perfectly timed his arrival at the agency just a short twenty minutes before lunchtime

“That’s just it, Boss.  I haven’t heard from her since we left yesterday.”  Mildred wrinkled her forehead with concern.  “I'm worried she’s taken ill or something.  She’s not answering at home.”

Annoyed that his plans for a mid-day lunch followed by a dessert of cajoling Miss Holt into attending the Bette Davis film festival were thwarted, he crossed his arms.  “No calls at all,” he stated with irritation.

“No.”  She shook her head for emphasis.  “She missed an appointment this morning on the Carrollton case too.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.  Now that was a cause for concern.  Laura might antagonize him by skipping out of the workplace today--knowing well his penchant for mid-afternoon movies on Wednesdays--but she would never miss a client meeting. 

“Cancel any other appointments.  I’m going to find her.”

 

*****

 

Outside her loft, Remington saw the missing lock and rapped twice to get Laura’s attention.  After the third round, he raked his hand through his hair and shoved at the door, frowning when it slid open. 

“Laura?”  He pitched his voice to carry through the small space. 

The silence unnerved him.  Uncomfortable at intruding on his partner’s privacy, especially in light of their bumpy relationship that lurched along with all the grace of a lumbering elephant, he only scanned her living space. Her purse sat in its usual spot on her desk with the Rabbit’s keys poking out of the top.  Relieved at finding evidence she hadn’t left, Remington settled in on her sofa to wait for her to return.  He spent his time polishing the pointed remarks he intended to make about her unannounced absence. 

An hour later, he paced her loft with his hands stuffed in his pockets, growing angry at her continued absence.  He began a seemingly idle search of her loft, noting the smallest out-of-place items. 

It was in the bathroom that he drew his brows together in real concern.  Feeling invasive, he picked up the packet of birth control pills lying on the bathroom counter.  The inside had a white label plastered to it--and by all indications it was a new prescription, begun only the prior week.  Firmly, he staunched the immediate grin.  For all he knew, she had only renewed a standing prescription.  He started to close the case when the days caught his attention.  The entire previous week's pills, plus Sunday and Monday, were missing from the pack.  But Tuesday’s pill still remained. 

That’s not right.  No phone call to the agency, her purse still on the desk, an open door and a pill that wasn’t missing.  He crossed his arms again.  Laura frequently accused him of jumping to conclusions too quickly.  It was her way of reminding him that she was senior detective of the partnership.  But Remington scratched his chin for a moment, then plunged in and began searching her place for clues as to her whereabouts anyway--knowing she would have words with him if she discovered his intrusion. 

By mid-afternoon though, he had sunk down on her sofa in defeat.  He punched in the office number.  “Mildred, has Miss Holt called in?”

“No, Chief.  No sign of her?”

“None.”

“This isn’t like her, Mr. Steele.”

He shook his head.  “I know.”  A dark frisson made its way from his throat to the pit of his stomach.

 

Remington stayed that night on her sofa, fraught with increasing anxiety.  He didn’t sleep, opting instead to pace alternately with clicking through the television channels.  In the middle of the night, he made a dash to his own flat on the off chance she might have gone there for some reason--but she hadn’t. 

At eight in the morning, he made the uncomfortable call to Laura’s mother and sister to see if they knew of her whereabouts.  Neither had any idea--and then he had two hysterical women to calm afterward.

He and Mildred canvassed the neighbors looking for clues and came up empty-handed.  In equal parts fury and fright, Remington lashed out to the older woman.  “Miss Holt is always so damned concerned about the agency’s reputation; how in the bloody hell does she think we’ll look if we can’t find a missing associate?” 

Mildred put her hands on her hips.  “Chief, you’ve got to get hold of yourself.  It’s time to start looking harder.  She might be in a jail, or a hospital or--”  She pressed her lips together, putting the back of a hand to her mouth.

Remington blanched.  “A morgue,” he finished unsteadily.  “You take the hospitals; I’ll check the ... other … and talk with the police.” 

The morgue turned up empty, thank God, of anyone bearing Laura’s description.  After speaking with an officer, Remington declined to file a missing persons report.  If his associate appeared in the next day or so, she’d be furious--citing lack of trust or some other nonsense in her ire.

He picked apart her loft again, looking for any hint of what might have happened.  Over a hasty meal of takeout Chinese in his flat, he recounted to Mildred the few clues he'd found.  “No sign of struggle in the loft.  It appears she vanished sometime Tuesday evening.  She either went with someone voluntarily or was kidnapped rather cleanly, Ms. Krebs.  But she left her purse and passport, so I think the latter is more likely,” he speculated.

“Then why haven’t we received a ransom note?” Mildred asked. 

Thinking about some of the more nefarious persons he’d known in his previous life, he shook his head.  “Not every kidnapping is about money.  Someone might have wanted revenge for a past case--although that seems unlikely as I’m usually the target for that sort of thing.”

“What else could it be?”

Remington steepled his fingers on his temples.  “The other side of kidnapping is someone becoming obsessed with her and wanting to keep her … rather like that Wally fellow some time ago.”

“But she hasn’t mentioned anyone stalking her or acting strange,” Mildred commented.

“No,” he agreed.  The deep pit opened wide in his stomach as he came to the realization that something awful indeed had happened to his partner.  And he, for one, had no idea what to do next. 

 

The following day, Remington filed that missing persons report with the police.  Without any more clues, Remington and Mildred took the case to the media, hoping someone somewhere had seen anything that might give them a lead.  He cringed as he gave the details in a short press conference.  Laura would flay him for this.  Imagine a private investigation firm needing to go to the media to find a missing associate.  With practiced ease, he spun the story to downplay the lack of clues and highlight the need for speedy recovery. 

While Mildred handled the firestorm of calls to the agency--mostly from concerned clients and reporters wanting interviews with Mr. Steele--Remington began sifting through every underworld connection he had made through the years.  Bribes slid across tables and snitches across Los Angeles began milking their network of contacts for information.  Steele, always known for his generosity when it came to good leads, would pay out a handsome sum for this one. 

But by Sunday night, with no clues--not a hint as to why Laura had disappeared--Remington cradled his head in his hands in despair.  She’d been missing for five days.  The thought that she’d walked out of her--his--life was inconceivable.  In the short weeks after their visit to the Friedlich Spa, the pair of them had taken real, if tentative, steps toward becoming partners in a whole different sense. 

It had started with a simple conversation.  Laura had asked him to tell her one thing about his childhood before Daniel had appeared.  And he’d answered--honestly and in detail--knowing that a simple prank or con wouldn’t fulfill her request.  He’d given her a short narrative about one muggy summer spent on the London docks.  Her pale face had reflected her genuine revulsion for his plight at that young age, yet she could smile at the occasional brazen exploit that he and his mates pulled off with aplomb. 

His reward had been a kiss that made his knees weak.  As his hands had skimmed across the denim of her well-fitted jeans, she’d muttered something under her breath about “five more days.”  He’d assumed it was the wrong time of the month, and perhaps it was, but given the little pill pack he’d discovered in her bathroom, the words took on a whole new meaning. Work had interfered, of course; such was the nature of their business.  Even Laura had expressed her frustrations while on  their last stakeout.  She’d looked so miserable he hadn’t the heart to tease her about their latest missed opportunity.

Given all that, he couldn’t imagine Laura would have vanished for any legitimate reason--which left kidnapping or blackmail.  Mildred had spent the past few days combing through the client base looking for ones with a grudge.  But none had any reason to target Laura over himself. 

That left someone who had a particular obsession with Miss Holt.

As he began a mental list of possibilities, the phone rang.  

 

 


	2. Technology

Laura had to still the shaking in her hands to dial Remington’s phone number.  For ten long hours, she’d waited for the damned cellular phone to charge.  She fumbled it the first time, took a deep breath and wiped the damp from her eyes to hit the numbers in the correct order.  Holding her breath, she listened to the ringing.  On the third, she bit her lip in despair as she waited for the answering machine to come on.  Her head snapped up when the ring cut off in the middle.  
  
With static hissing in the background, she heard clearly, “Steele here.”  
  
“You’re home.”  _That was stupid, Laura._ But she was so happy to hear his voice it was all she could think to say.    
  
“Laura?”  She heard rustling as if he were going from a reclining to a sitting position.  “Laura?”  He nearly shouted her name the second time.    
  
“It’s me.”   
  
“Mildred and I have been worried sick, not to mention your family.  Where in the bloody hell are you?”   
  
His anger told her just how frightened he’d been.  But she couldn’t give him solace.  “Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Steele,” she said softly.   
  
“What in the blue blazes is that supposed to mean, Miss Holt?”   
  
She winced and lashed back.  “It means I’m stuck on a pretty little island in some ocean, and I can’t tell you which one.  There’s exactly one house on this island and one occupant--me.  I’ve been here for nearly a damned week and haven’t seen a soul.  No clocks, no television, no radio, no regular phones.  I’ve picked enough locks to impress even you to find this ridiculous cellular phone.  I can’t tell you what day it is or what the people on the next island over speak.  There are stacks of movies and books in a half dozen languages and a fully stocked freezer.  If I knew how to get home, I’d be on my way.”     
  
After a long pause, Remington quipped, “Now that’s a bloody shame, having to eat your own cooking.”    
  
The absurd, although wholly accurate remark, coaxed a smile from her, and she laughed once under her breath.    
  
“Christ, Laura, tell me what happened.”  The unmistakable relief in his voice told her he’d feared the worst.    
  
She rose, pacing the length of the library in front of the solid wall of plate glass windows.  The moonlight dipped in and out of the rolling waves barely visible in the darkness.  “It’s stupid, really.  Someone knocked on my door Tuesday evening.  I was expecting pizza and got two goons instead.  One grabbed hold of me, the other injected me with something that knocked me out cold.  I woke up here.  I can’t tell you how I got here, how long I was out or where I am.”    
  
“Today is Sunday.”   
  
That was something at least.  Consulting the notepad she’d jotted the days on, she sighed and counted backward.  “Then I woke up on Wednesday night.”    
  
“Plenty of time to get you nearly anywhere.”   
  
“Exactly,” she agreed.  “Now what is this about?  Have you received a ransom note?”   
  
“No.  And I don’t think I will.”  The absolute surety in his voice chilled her.   
  
“Why?”   
  
“Because this has all the hallmarks of a collector.”   
  
“A what?”   
  
“A collector.  Someone who wants to possess the exquisite.  Some do it with paintings or priceless jewels locked in a vault.  Some do it with cars kept in air-conditioned garages and never driven.  A rare few do it with people.  Think about it, Laura.  You’ve been given a gilded cage.  I imagine the sheets are silk, the food heavenly, and the scenery is impossibly beautiful.”   
  
Her jaw dropped.  “Exactly.  How did you know?”   
  
The clipped accent told her what he had feared.  “Because without a ransom note, the only other possibility was that someone had you killed or tortured.  In either case, it makes little sense that you would be targeted except as a message to me.  Since I haven’t received anything of the sort, then I assume you were the intended target for a wholly different reason.”    
  
The shiver that went through her body had nothing to do with cold.  At last, she asked, “So what happens now?”   
  
“I’ll find you.”  The words were low and hard.   
  
Her hand clenched around the bulk of the cellular phone.  Laura had heard the term “deadly conviction.”  Now she understood it.  His absolute certainty gave her hope, the kind that shook a handful of tears loose from her eyes before she regained control of herself.    
  
“Don’t cry, Laura.”   
  
“You heard that?”   
  
“I did.  Come now; dry the tears and tell me what you’ve learned.”   
  
He spoke to her as if they had a difficult case to work, and the familiarity calmed her.  She gave him a thorough description of the tiny island, the low-slung house that occupied it, the little generator that provided electricity, and the short dock at one end.   
  
“Hold on.  My pen ran out of ink.”  He swore while he dug for another one from somewhere.  “Ah, have it.  Keep going.  I’m writing this all down.”   
  
“I thought Remington Steele didn’t need notes,” she said lightly.   
  
“I don’t.  These are for Mildred,” he retorted.   
  
Again, he stole a laugh from her despite the circumstances.  “Of course they are, Mr. Steele.”   
  
“I like it better when you call me ‘Remington.’”   
  
“So do I.”  The huskiness in her voice surprised both of them.    
  
“I’d like to explore that in detail … much detail … but it will have to wait.”   
  
“You sound like me now.”    
  
“When this is done, I’m taking you somewhere where we can be alone.”   
  
“I think I’ve heard that promise before.”   
  
“We’ll work on that.  Now … keep going,” he repeated.   
  
Without knowing what element would provide the clue to her location, Laura told him every detail of the house she inhabited, right down to the contents of the kitchen pantry.    
  
“How is food delivered to you?” he asked.   
  
“It’s pretty well stocked for now.  I’m beginning to run out of a few perishables, but there are enough staples in the pantry and freezer to last for weeks.”   
  
“Keep an eye out.  There’s bound to be some sort of arrangement.  You might be able to make contact with the delivery boy but probably not.  He’s sure to be well-bribed to keep his mouth closed.”    
  
She started to answer when the line abruptly went silent, and the lights died on the phone.  With icy calm, she set the cell phone back on the charger she’d placed on the kitchen island.  She laid her head down on the counter beside it and tried not to cry.   
  
  
  *****   
  
  
Remington immediately rang the operator in a futile attempt to trace the call.  He dialed Mildred next.  Without the niceties of polite greetings, he launched into a quick recap of the conversation.   
  
“Whoa, hold your horses, Boss.  Laura called you?  She’s safe, unharmed, and stuck on a deserted island somewhere?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“This sounds like a bad television show.  So what next?”   
  
“We need a list of flights out of Los Angeles and area airports that Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning.  They couldn’t have gotten her aboard a commercial flight unconscious, so it would have to be a private plane.  Get a list of pilots and whoever might have been on board.”    
  
“Any ideas where she might be?”   
  
“Mildred, from her description, she could be in the Caribbean, out near Hawaii or somewhere in Indonesia.  Hopefully, she’ll be able to charge that phone and call back.  If I leave the condo, I’ll forward my calls to the office so we won’t miss her.”   
  
“Sure thing, Boss.  I’ll get on it.  I’ll check the registrations of the planes too.”   
  
“Excellent, Mildred.”  He berated himself as he disconnected for not thinking of that.  Laura wouldn’t have missed it.  Hoping his next contact would prove more enlightening, Remington dialed again.  “Monroe, Steele here.”    
  
“Hello, my friend.  I have no news for you yet, but my ear is touching the ground I am listening so closely.”   
  
“I know you are.  But I have something for you.”   
  
“Do tell.”   
  
“Laura is safe.  She called me on a cellular phone tonight.”  With a succinct accounting, he filled Monroe in on the island’s description.    
  
“It could be anywhere, my friend,” Monroe said with sadness.  “But the house, that leads me to think Caribbean.  Bahamas perhaps, the Keys.  Perhaps even our niche in Barbados.”   
  
“It takes a great deal of money to build a house on an island.  It would be damned difficult if it were in the middle of an ocean.  Plus a helicopter or boat can’t exactly land supplies.  It’s too far for anything but a large plane or a ship.  From her description, the island is simply too small for that,” Remington added thoughtfully.   
  
“Wait, you said she had a cellular phone?” Monroe asked in surprise.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“I deal in electronics, mate.  There has to be a broadcast tower nearby--at most it can't be more than ten miles away on a good day with no interference.  There aren’t all that many towers in the world either.”   
  
“So she’s somewhere near a major population area.”   
  
“Most assuredly.”   
  
Remington rubbed his temples.  “I think I need a map.”   
  
“You do.  One with coverage areas marked.”   
  
“Can a call be traced from a cellular phone?”  Remington wanted to know.   
  
“No, I think not.  They are becoming popular with some of our less illustrious friends, if you catch my meaning, for exactly that reason.”    
  
“That’s rather inconvenient at the moment.”   
  
“Yes, mate, I agree.  But we have a good start anyway.”  Monroe’s confident voice steadied him.    
  
“Can you think of any ‘collectors’ who might have taken an interest in Laura?”    
  
The line was quiet.  “I will give this some thought and call you in the morning.”    
  
“Thank you, Monroe.  I owe you a drink.”   
  
“I’ll hold you to that, my friend.”    
  
With a quiet, “ _Au revoir_ , mate,” Remington set the phone down on the cradle.    
  
He stood, as if he had something to do.  Glancing at the clock--one that he knew Laura didn’t have--he realized it was nearly midnight.  The map would have to wait until morning.  He mechanically undressed and readied for bed.  But when he crawled between the sheets, he could only lie there.  _Laura’s alive, Laura’s alive she’s alive Laura’salivealivealivealive .…_ His mind was stuck on the refrain, and the nausea that rose from his stomach forced him up from the pillow.  Only now could he admit that he’d been terrified that she might be dead.  A rare tear dampened his cheek.  He ignored it.  

He picked up the phone and carried it into his bedroom, arranging it so that it lay on the opposite pillow.  Only with one hand resting on it could he get a sketchy kind of sleep.

 

 

 


	3. Timing

Laura woke, saw that the phone indicated a full charge and snatched it up.  Frantically, she dialed Remington’s phone number again.  But on the fourth ring, the agency answering machine picked up.  Realizing that he must have forwarded his calls to the office and wondering why no one answered, she tried not to be disappointed when she hung up without leaving a message.  She left the phone charging and went for a beach run.    
  
With bare feet digging into the packed sand at the water’s edge, her thoughts ran unfettered.  She found the idea of living without clocks distinctly odd.  Even with the sun overhead, she had no idea of the time.  It could be anywhere from ten to three.  Absently, she kept an eye out for a good stick to drive into the sand, as she had for the past two days, thinking she could create a sundial of sorts.  So far, nothing suitable had washed up on shore.    
  
For the first time in her life, she had no schedule, no list of things “to do” today.  The rising sun woke her.  She ate when hungry, ran or walked the beach when she needed exercise, and slept when the sun dropped below the horizon.    
  
Beyond giving the house a thorough search, she’d had nothing to do.  After the third such exploration of the house, dock and island, she was confident that she’d found everything of importance.  The phone hadn’t been easy to find either.  It had been hidden in the wall of the kitchen pantry.  Laura was still deciding if that was a little cliché--but better than finding it hidden in the library.  Once she’d found the dead spot behind the paneling, it had taken her a good hour to figure out how to release the catch and another thirty minutes to solve the combination lock.    
  
Remington would have had it open in under two.  She found herself muttering complaints as if he were there to hear her annoyed jibes that would counter whatever quips he would have on hand for her lack of expediency.    
  
The joy of finding the cellular phone had been accompanied by ten hours of fear--while it charged--that she was out of range and the damned thing would be useless.  
  
But besides the cellular phone, she hadn’t discovered anything else to give her a clue to her location or who might have taken her.  She’d even looked inside the book covers to see if a “this book belongs to” plate might have a name on it--to no avail.  Whoever’d set up this pretty prison knew what he or she was doing.  A chill ran through her despite the warmth of the blazing sun.  Forcibly, she pushed those dark thoughts away and focused on replaying the conversation with Remington.     
  
Laura didn’t believe in fate.  If she did, this would have been the latest in a long line of undeniable evidence that the two of them were not meant to be together.  But she and Remington stood as stark proof that both operated outside what he called kismet.  She smiled as she ran along the curve of the beach.     
  
She realized he had anticipated the abrupt ending to the call better than she and had extracted the maximum amount of information from her in the time they had.  The observation annoyed her, not that he wasn’t correct, but that she’d let her emotions get the best of her.  She’d been so damned happy to hear his voice.  
  
Slowing her pace, she veered into the water and let the waves wash away the sweat, cooling her when she dove in for a quick swim.  The clear blue water layered over white sand appeared magical with the glint of the sun forming dancing sparks.  There was no denying the beauty of the setting, but the pleasure in her face fell away as she remembered Remington’s caution.    
  
And then the need to listen to that unique British accent with the streak of Irish roared through her--but she forced herself to shower, eat and dry her hair before dialing his number again.    
  
Mildred answered on the first ring.  “Remington Steele Investigations.”  
  
“Hi, Mildred.”  Right away, Laura began hearing sniffling and had to pinch the bridge of her nose to keep her own composure.    
  
“Oh, Miss Holt!  I was so glad to hear from Mr. Steele last night that you’re okay.”  
  
“I am okay.  Completely intact, in fact.  I don’t want to rush you off, Mildred, but is Mr. Steele available?”  
  
“No, he’s not back from the map store yet.  He said something about an atlas and talking with a cellular phone store about coverage maps.  He insisted I stay here in case you called.”    
  
Laura raised her eyebrows, impressed by his line of thinking.  Hope flooded into her.  “What other leads are you pursuing?”  She felt odd asking about clues as if her disappearance was merely a routine investigation.    
  
“I’m finishing up a list of all non-commercial flights out of Los Angeles and San Diego area airports.  Mr. Steele figured they couldn’t carry an unconscious woman aboard a regular flight, so I’m making a list of flights that left Tuesday night and Wednesday morning.  I’m pulling their flight plans, passenger lists and registrations.”  
  
“Good.”  More hope.    
  
“Is--is there anything I can do for you, Miss Holt?”  
  
Laura looked out across the kitchen island to the water outside.  “Would you call my mother?  I … I don’t know that I’m up to talking to her just yet.  I certainly don’t have any explanations for her.”  
  
“Already done.  Mr. Steele called her first thing this morning.”  
  
Surprised, Laura asked, “He didn’t try to pawn that off on you?”  
  
“Oh, he made a halfhearted attempt to see if I would bite, but we both knew it wasn’t my call to make,” Mildred snorted.  
  
“Why is that?” Not that I don’t agree ....  
  
“Because your mother still thinks he’s your boss, for one, and--“  
  
“And what?” Laura prompted.  
  
“Well, because you two are dating.”  Mildred’s bold statement caught her off guard.  But she didn’t deny it.  What else could their relationship be called at this point?  Although “dating” seemed to be too light to describe the feelings between them.  “Committed” appeared too dry, although that was the word that had cropped up most often as of late.  
  
When she didn’t respond right away, the older woman asked, “You are … aren’t you?”  
  
Laura let a satisfied smile cross her face.  “Sure.  We can call it that.”    
  
Mildred let up an annoyed hmmph.  “Let me know if that changes, will you?  You two kids drive me nuts with this … thing you have going.”    
  
“Then I think you are third on a growing list of people with that same complaint,” she retorted.  
  
“Oh, Miss Holt!” Mildred snorted again.    
  
Changing the subject, Laura asked, “What time is it there anyway?”  
  
“Nearly ten.  Oh--no clocks, right?  I read the notes.”  
  
“Right.  But … it’s later than that here, of that I’m sure.  It’s still daylight, so that means I’m east of Los Angeles, not west.  Pass that on to Mr. Steele, will you?  And tell him I’ll call later after the battery charges again.”  
  
“Will do.  Anything else?”  
  
“Only that it’s good to hear your voice, Mildred.”    
  
“Yours too, Miss Holt.”  
  
Reluctantly, Laura said good-bye.    
  
She went to the window, somewhat jazzed by knowing something as simple as the time … at least in L.A.  Getting serious about setting up a sundial, she walked through the house looking for something suitable.  A horrendously ugly statue in the foyer filled the bill.  She dragged the heavy monstrosity out the door, leaving a long track in the sand.  She set it up on a relatively flat spot, well away from high tide, then hunted for something to mark the sun’s shadows.  In the kitchen she found metal fondue forks that would do.  As she turned to go back outside, she stopped and smacked her forehead.  The oven had a timer on it.  She grinned.   
  
  
*****  
  
  
“Laura, sometimes you can be bloody brilliant.”  
  
Her eyebrows flew upward.  She had settled into her bed sometime late in the night with the telephone cradled against her cheek and her arm draped across her forehead.  “The compliment is nice, but what prompted it?”  
  
“All I need to know is ‘noon’ where you are.  That will give me your longitude.”  
  
“Longitude?  What do you know about longitude and latitude, Mr. Steele?”  
  
“Try to remember I’ve served aboard a ship or two in my youth.”  
  
“I didn’t think you sailed during the day,” she shot back.  
  
He laughed outright at the reference to his short career in smuggling.  “Mostly.  I can navigate by the stars and a watch if necessary.”  Then he whistled, low and long.  “Oh, Laura, go outside and tell me what constellations you can see.  I’ll find a star chart tomorrow and figure out where you are.”  
  
Laura rubbed her face with one hand.  “Remington Steele, is there anything you haven’t done?”  
  
“I haven’t made love to you yet.”  His voice caressed like a warm breeze off the ocean.  
  
She sighed as a small thrill skittered across her heart.  “I walked into that one.”  
  
“Yes, you did.  Now go outside, love, and tell me what constellations you see.”    
  
She pushed off the bed and opened the sliding glass door before his endearment sank in.  In silence, she walked outside and peered into the sky.  But she couldn’t make sense of what she saw.  “Do you mean it?”  
  
The line went quiet, then, “Yes,” with soft, firm conviction.  
  
She cleared her throat, then blinked to do the same to her eyes.  Forcing herself to concentrate, she looked up.  The sheer number of stars overwhelmed her.  She’d never seen this from the haze of Los Angeles.  “I … I can’t see Polaris.  Oh, there it is--near the horizon.  I see Cassiopeia about forty-five degrees up and to the north-northeast.”  She shook her head.  “I don’t recognize anything   
else,” she said with a hitch in her voice.  
  
“That’s a start.  Laura, I will find you, and it will be with your help.  I already have your location narrowed down to somewhere between the outer Bahamas and Barbados.  I’ve been to Barbados, remember?  I know precisely how Cassiopeia looks in the sky from there and how the North Star sits low on the horizon.  Believe it or not, there are only so many islands within a ten-mile radius of a cellular phone tower, fewer still that boast of blue water and white sands.”  
  
“But Remington, if whoever kidnapped me can do it once, it can be done again.  And we still don’t know why.”  
  
“I’ll have that answer too.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“I’ll speak with every pilot of every aircraft that left the Southern California area that night, if necessary, to find the one that had you on board.  Then I’ll find out who hired that plane.  And we’ll have a little chat.”      
  
Laura looked up into the night sky.  “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Steele.”  
  
“You do that.  Now … what are you wearing?”  
  
She laughed outright, glad to have the distraction from the dark thoughts.   “A very thin t-shirt, no bra, and white lacy panties.”  She heard him choke on whatever he was drinking.    
  
“Christ, Laura, you don’t play fair.”  His grin could be heard all the way through the phone line.  
  
“You noticed,” she quipped as she washed her sandy feet in the outdoor shower before stepping back into the bedroom.   
  
“Aye, love, I did.  Is that water I’m hearing?”    
  
“Are you hoping my t-shirt will get wet?”  
  
“A man can have his dreams, Miss Holt.”  
  
“Yours happen to involve wet t-shirts?”  
  
“Mine involve you nearly any way I can have you.”  
  
Laura sat on her bed with no little astonishment at the frankness of his words.  “That’s a rather audacious statement.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“Combined with your declaration earlier, it is.  Why are you telling me this?”  She clutched the phone a little harder.  
  
“Perhaps--“   
  
The line went dead as the battery ran out of juice.  Frustrated, Laura stalked to the kitchen and slammed the phone on the charger.  

 

 

 


	4. Assessment

 

Laura marked time throughout the morning, literally.   
  
She’d gone to bed last night in the living room so the rising sun would wake her.  When it did, she set the timer in the kitchen for the maximum twelve hours, then walked outside to lay a skewer in the sand where the shadow was cast by the ugly statue.   Each hour after that, she checked the shadow, laid a skewer down and wrote down the numbers on the timer.  As the morning heated up and the sun approached its highest point, she moved out onto the sand to watch intently the shortening shadow.   
  
Throughout the long process, Laura had plenty of time to think about Remington and the significant changes in their relationship over the past few weeks.  As intimate as their friendship had become over the years, it had undeniably coalesced into something stronger.   
  
Their argument at the spa and subsequent conversation on the beach had lanced a festering sore that Laura hadn’t realized ran as deep as it did.  As a result, she’d reappraised their entire association--and discovered a solid, abiding friendship based on mutual trust.  That their attraction had continued as long as it had spoke well of that aspect too.  And thus, the lock she’d so carefully placed around her heart opened, letting Remington inside at last.  
  
But to hear him say he loved her had been a final kiss to a healing wound.     
  
As she basked in the heat and slathered on more sunblock, she decided she should have been more frightened given her current situation.  But the idea that Remington wouldn’t find her was inconceivable.  When push came to shove, he had the ability to martial any number of resources that often astonished her.  She berated herself  again for not being more careful.  The simple precaution of having a peephole installed in her door would have prevented the whole scenario.   
  
When the shadows began lengthening again, she jumped up and ran to the telephone.  
  
“Steele here.”   
  
The sleep evident in his voice didn’t deter Laura in the slightest.  “Remington, it’s noon.”  
  
He only grunted.  “It’s eight-forty in the morning, Miss Holt.  Too early for any reasonable human to arise from the bed.”   
  
Impatiently, she ordered, “Remington, wake up!  Your eight-forty is my noon!”   
  
She heard rustling, another groan, and then, “Got it, love.  Do you know what time the sun came up?”  
  
“I woke at dawn; hold on while I figure it out.”  She read back through her notes.  “Uh, somewhere before six, but I can’t give you an exact time.”  
  
“That’s it, then.  I’m meeting Monroe at nine; we’re going over a map.  If all goes well, I’ll be on a plane tonight.”    
  
“Remington,” Laura added thoughtfully, “if you need help with the math part, call my old friend, Milton.  He’s the one that did the analysis of that jacket, remember?”  
  
“Ah, a moment in our career I’d prefer to forget.”   
  
“Milton or the coat?”  
  
“That part where you were shot.”  
  
Laura had fuzzy recollections of coming around in Remington’s arms that day but knew that it had affected her partner deeply.  “I can’t imagine why,” she said wryly, “but, in any case, Milton’s hobby is naval history.  I seem to recall him talking about sextants and calculating longitude.  He probably has the charts you need.  His phone number is in my Rolodex at the office, but I think he’s listed in the phone book.”   
  
“Excellent thinking, Miss Holt.  I’ll be in the limo today.  Call me there in four hours.”  
  
“I will.  I’ll set the timer.”  
  
The line went quiet for a moment.  “Ah, Laura?  I had a thought last night.”  
  
“What was it?”  
  
“The phone might have been left there for a reason; you were probably supposed to find it.”  
  
She’d suspected, but to hear Remington confirm her thoughts had her pacing and rubbing away the sudden goose bumps on her arms.  “Do you think our calls have been monitored?”  
  
“No.  Monroe assures me that isn’t the case.  But if the phone rings, you’ll want to answer it.  You’ve been there for over a week.  A regular person would be rather lost by now and susceptible to the collector’s attention.  Laura, if you don’t answer, your kidnapper might come down to find out where you are.  Let’s not give him a reason to do that.”  
  
“Okay, now you’ve managed to frighten me.”  
  
“I don’t mean to do that, love.  I only want you to be prepared.  I think I’ll need another day or two before I can get you out of there, and if someone gets suspicious, you’ll be moved.”  
  
“Thanks for that, I think.”  Laura changed the subject.  “Promise me something?”  
  
“Well now, that depends.  If it involves making love to you in the bathtub, absolutely.”  
  
She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her expression.  “I’m easier than that.  All I want is a taste of your cooking when we return.”   
  
“Hmm, perhaps we can compromise.  I’ll make dinner and serve it to you in the whirlpool.”   
  
The image of the two of them au naturel in Remington’s black tub eating whatever gourmet creation he made scorched through Laura’s imagination.  Biting her own lip, she shot back, “I’ll hold you to that.”  
  
“You know,” he mused, “if I’m not there in under forty-eight hours, I’m a buggering idiot.  Now let me off this bloody telephone so I can do that.  Four hours, love.”  
  
“Four hours, Remington,” she echoed, then clicked off the line.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Remington called Milton, who promptly agreed to bring his charts to Monroe’s apartment.  He couldn’t have lived too far way, for the two men met in the parking lot within the hour.    
  
“Steele, it’s been a while.”   
  
“I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances, but Laura appreciates whatever help you can provide.  As do I.”  
  
Milton smiled.  “Binky would rap my knuckles if I refused.”  
  
As they climbed the stairs to Monroe’s flat, Remington paused, “Why do you call her ‘Binky’?”  
  
The other man smiled and scratched his nose.  “Before the start of our sophomore year at Stanford, I was hitting on her in a bar the night before classes started.  She got annoyed with me because I was pestering her for her name.  Finally, she told me it was ‘Binky’ and told me to get lost.  Imagine her reaction when she found out we were assigned to the same lab in physics.  I ended up as her study partner and haven’t let her live the name down since.”   
  
Remington laughed with glee.  “That sounds like Laura.  She must have been mortified.”  
  
“Nah.  She took it pretty well, and we became good friends.”  
  
Unable to stifle the instant jealousy, Remington asked, “Just friends?”    
  
“Steele, do you think I would have let her go?”  
  
“You do seem the intelligent type.”   
  
“Well, there you are.”  
  
Distracted by knocking on Monroe’s door, it was only much later that Remington realized the man had neatly sidestepped the question without answering.  Any admiration for technique was squelched under a layer of irritation.   
  
After introductions were made, Monroe showed them the map he’d made of cellular phone towers around the Caribbean and marked the radius of signals.  “I’ve a few friends who helped me out with this one, but I think I’ve narrowed Miss Holt’s location to a couple of places.  She’s not in the Bahamas.  There’s no cellular coverage out there yet.  Miami’s the closest place, but nothing matches her description.”   
  
Remington laid his notes on the table.  “Let’s add this to the mix.  Laura called this morning at eight-forty and said it was noon on her island.”  Milton dug through his tote bag to retrieve a star chart, another of time zones, and a calculator.   
  
In just forty-five minutes, the three men zeroed in on a tiny string of islands off the coast of Venezuela near Caracas.  Remington made a rapid phone call asking Mildred to reserve a private plane and have it ready to fly by mid-afternoon.   
  
Monroe waited patiently for him to finish.  “My friend, I have more information for you.”  
  
The Irishman raised an eyebrow.   
  
“I looked over the list of pilots that you gave me.  I made a couple of phone calls and came up with a name: Ari Tigano.  He’s a known collector of anything that catches his eye.  But he prefers to steal it, not purchase it.”  
  
Remington’s jaw dropped.  “Ari?  He’s a client of ours.  We recovered a watch that had been stolen from him.”  He narrowed his eyes and bit off a nasty curse.  “Bloody hell, it was a set up, wasn’t it?  Laura worked the case, closed it in a couple of days.”  He tipped his head back as he thought it through.  “We met at a museum.  We’d done the security and attended the opening.”  He remembered that Laura wore a red gown that knotted at the breast and fell in layers to the floor.  She’d been stunning--and apparently, he wasn’t the only one to take notice.  
  
“Aye, mate.  It appears he might have had an eye on her.  He lives in San Diego, you know.”   
  
“Does he now?”  Remington’s jaw firmed.  “I think I’ll be paying him a visit.” 

 

  
  
Late that afternoon, the private jet he hired zipped to San Diego.  In the twilight, the former thief stole between the houses, hiding in the poor light and lengthening shadows.  
  
What idiot old boy wired this panel?  Remington stared intently at the crisscrossing electrical wires controlling the security system to Ari Tigano’s house.  He had every intention of making a quick foray into the house and scoring some kind of incentive to ensure Laura’s continued safety.  Tigano was sure to have some sort of valuable that would make for handy blackmail if necessary; the trick was finding it.   
  
Then he saw the problem.  He rocked back a step and reassessed the entire situation with Laura.  All of his assumptions had been wrong. 

 

 


	5. Reassessment

He soundlessly shut the panel and retreated.  An hour and a half later, the Gulfstream was in the sky heading for Venezuelan waters.  Four men accompanied him: the current pilot and co-pilot and their reliefs who were sound asleep in the rear of the cabin.    
The ten-hour flight gave him time to think.  With his eyes closed and head tipped against the leather of the headrest, he should have slept.  But what he’d found behind the electrical panel nagged at him.  On the surface, the board appeared to be part of a high level, well-designed security system--perhaps bordering on the side of paranoid.  In truth, it bore many of the elements he personally preferred.  
  
But when he’d opened the panel and began tracing wires, two of the connections curved into the wall and back out again.  He didn’t see them at first, as they were hidden in the cluster of wires near the back.  He’d stripped off his gloves, touched the odd tangle and found the culprits.    
  
The prickling of his neck hair had warned him to look harder at the situation.  Mentally, he’d drawn a picture of the layout.  His jaw tightened when he realized that a trap waited to snap around him with all the ease of Laura’s kidnapping.  If he didn’t take care of the hidden connections, one kind of warning would sound.  If he did, another would sound, letting Tigano know exactly who had broken into his home.  The whole setup was brilliant, and Remington couldn’t see a way to defeat it.  Not yet.    
  
One thing was clear.  He had to retrieve Laura before taking the steps necessary to neutralize Tigano.  At the moment he had zero proof of the man’s involvement and no other leverage to use to keep him at bay.    
  
Without any answers for the moment, he set the problem aside as one would an empty tray of canapés--still messy and had to be addressed but could wait a bit--and turned his mind to Laura.   
  
His lips curved into a half smile.  She hadn’t yet lost her composure on the telephone--no panicking about the situation, no pleading for him to hurry.  He’d heard the fear in her voice, just as he’d heard the iron control that held it in check in order to feed him information from her end with her usual finesse.    
  
In spite of it all, he was rather chuffed at some of the conversations they’d had.  Unlike most of their previous ones, Laura laughed at his innuendos and returned them with aplomb.  Those exchanges told him exactly how much faith she had in him.  Not once had she expressed doubt about his ability to find her, although if she had, he would have been terribly disappointed.   
  
He closed his eyes in anticipation of holding her before the next day was out.    
  
  
*****  
  
  
Laura paced on the beach.  She knew Remington had some harebrained scheme up his sleeve and wasn’t telling.  They’d spoken twice today--the first time at the designated four-hour time so Remington could tell her they’d zeroed in on three small islands near Venezuela.  She’d swum a victory lap around the island while the phone charged up afterward.    
  
The second conversation, coordinated by Mildred, had been two hours later as Remington boarded a private plane.  He’d asked her to mark her island so he could recognize it from the air.  They’d agreed not to use a bonfire because they didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention.     
  
But the elation of knowing he was on his way was tempered by the nagging feeling that he was up to something dangerous.    
  
Laura began laying out trinkets and small items from the house on the beach.  The eventual destruction of these expensive decorations would be a petty revenge on her part.  She hoped some of them were valuable.  And with a flash of insight, she knew what her partner was doing.  

 

 


	6. Found

Remington’s jet flew over the trio of islands as the dawn broke.  From where he’d ousted the co-pilot in the cockpit, he focused his binoculars in on the smallest.  Sure enough, a house graced the middle … along with a giant X on the beach.    
  
The shout he let out made the pilot jump.  “‘X’ marks the spot, does it not, mate?”  His smile grew wide as he saw Laura walk out from the shadows to peer into the sky at the airplane.  “Circle a couple of times so she’ll know it’s me; then land this damned thing so I can get her.”    
  
  
*****  
  
  
Laura heard the plane buzzing overhead as she ate an orange.    
  
Late last evening, a boat stopped by the dock and left a cooler on the far end.  She hadn’t heard it from inside the house until a loud horn sounded, and she went out to investigate.  As the light from the boat disappeared, she’d found the packed ice chest filled with perishable foods.  Dragging it to the house and unloading it served as an excellent distraction while she waited to hear from Remington.  Fresh fruit and cool milk made up her breakfast that morning.  She wandered outside at the noise, staying to the shadows and carrying the cellular phone.    
  
When the little airplane circled overhead once, then twice, she walked into the sunlight and raised her hand in a hesitant wave.  The pilot dipped his wings in her direction, then flew south and disappeared.  She clutched the phone hard and began pacing as she waited for Remington to come back.    
  
The cellular phone in her hand began to buzz.   Laura stared at it through four rings then steeled herself to answer it.  “Hello?”  
  
“Hello, Miss Holt.  I hope you are enjoying your little taste of paradise.”    
  
Although the quiet voice sounded familiar, Laura couldn’t place it.  “It’s lovely.  Whom do I have to thank for this … escape?”  
  
“Now, that’s an interesting term for it.  But I’m disappointed you don’t remember me.  Your partner paid me a visit last night.  He knows who I am.”  
  
Icy fingers of fear dug into her skin.  “That’s nice.”    
  
“I am rather disappointed he evaded my little surprise.  He’s smarter than you, I think.”  
  
Laura didn’t rise to the bait--and placed the voice.  “We each have our talents, Mr. Tigano.”  
  
“Ah, so now you recognize me.  That’s good.  That’s one of the reasons you fascinate me, Miss Holt.  Intelligence and beauty should always be appreciated.”  
  
“A letter would have done nicely,” she retorted in annoyance.  
  
The silky laughter on the other end of the line only made her more peevish.  “Good one, Miss Holt.  Now, I think I’ll come for a visit.  Make yourself pretty.  I won’t be long.”    
  
She swore vehemently when the phone clicked off.  She stared into the sky and begged, “Hurry, Remington.  We don’t have much time.”  

 

 

 


	7. Discoveries

Forty-five minutes later, she could see a moving dot coming in low on the south horizon--the same direction the plane had gone.  She paced inside the house as the boat closed in.  Remington hadn’t said how he would be coming to get her, but as the yacht began to round the island to mate with the dock, Laura could see a blue-and-white helicopter cruising in from that same direction.    
  
Yacht or helicopter?  Helicopter, she decided.  Light and speedy, it caught up with the yacht in moments.      
It was too late to leave the house by way of the doors without being seen by the boat, so she opened a window on the opposite side and slipped through.  A palm tree gave her a hiding place to watch the docking of the yacht and three men spilling out.  One of them motioned toward the helicopter as another headed inside.    
  
Laura took a chance and dashed behind the house to wave both arms at Remington, hoping he would see her.    
He did, veering the helicopter to the right and descending as she ran straight into the water.  The beach didn’t slope much here, and she made it a fair way from the house before shouts came from behind her.    
  
Remington dropped down near her and opened his door.  She grabbed the strut of the helicopter and climbed on.  Something pinged off the metal, and she snapped her head around in shock.    
  
“Laura, take my hand,” Remington ordered.  She reached up and clasped wrists.  He yanked her into his lap as another bullet bounced off the cockpit door.  “Hold on.”    
  
She straddled him and held on to the seat behind him as he yanked the joystick over, forcing the little helicopter into the air and away from the island.  Laura buried her face in his neck, brutally holding on to both the seat and her self-control while Remington carried them to safety.    
  
  
*****  
  
  
Once the island was out of view, Laura crawled out of Remington’s lap and into the passenger seat where she strapped herself in.  She stared out the window while he flew back to a ragged airstrip outside Caracas, landing a few yards away from the jet that would take them home.    
  
She didn’t--or couldn’t--move.  Remington rounded the helicopter to open her door.  When he did, he discovered her hands were shaking violently.  She’d bitten her mouth so that she wouldn’t cry.  The sight of that swollen lower lip had fury raging through him as he unsnapped her seatbelt and helped her to the ground.    
  
Laura glanced around in confusion.  “Where are we going?”  
  
“Home.”  He indicated the waiting jet.   
  
The second set of pilots had kept the aircraft at ready after taking on a load of fuel.  The original crew members were already snoozing in their bunks as the detectives boarded.  Laura moved to the rear while Remington rapped the cockpit door.  “Let’s shag it.  I’d rather not hang about here too long.”    
  
“Aye, sir.  I’ve already radioed for clearance.”  
  
“Excellent, mate.”  
  
With just the two of them in the main cabin, Remington found Laura staring out the window again as the plane taxied down the runway.  He sat next to her, wondering if he should offer comfort or leave her alone.  As the aircraft gained speed, he took her hand and held it between his own. The moment the wheels lifted off the ground, he found himself with an armful of Laura.    
  
“You found me.”  Tears of relief slid down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.  
  
“Of course, love.”  He held her close, ignoring the damp on his own face.     
  
“I know.  I never doubted you, Remington.”  
  
He fisted his hand in her hair and kissed her--not with sweet seduction, nor a teasing taste.  Raw need had him grasping her head as his mouth roamed over her face.  His hands slid down her back and up her arms to her hair again.    
  
And for a wonder, Laura wasn’t resisting in the least.  She had the buttons on his shirt open and her hands skimming across his chest before he discovered her intentions.    
  
Not one to take advantage of a woman in any sort of distressed state, he tried to stop her explorations even though he temporarily despised his own nobility.  “Laura … I don’t know that this is exactly the right time for this sort of thing.”  
  
Her wet lashes swept upward, revealing brown eyes glazed with desire.  “This plane has a suite in it?  Toward the back?”  
  
“Ah, yes, I believe it does.”    
  
“Fully stocked?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“With condoms?”  
  
He nearly swallowed his tongue.  “Ah, actually, I believe so.”    
  
She rolled her eyes.  “Really, Mr. Steele, is there anything you haven’t done?”    
  
He reassessed her mood in an instant--and made a snap judgment as he stood and lifted her into his arms.  “A great deal.  But I’m about to correct all that.”    
  
“Excellent thinking.”    
  
He kicked the door shut behind them.    
  
  
*****  
  
  
Laura woke because she couldn’t breathe.  They’d fallen asleep with fingers entwined as they faced each other across a very small distance.  Now Remington sprawled over her--his torso smashing a breast, an arm draped across her other one, and his heavy thigh thrown over her hips.    
  
For a minute she debated between wanting to inhale and enjoying the comforting weight of his body.  Then she rolled her eyes and shoved hard.  There were other ways of snuggling.    
  
“Laura, really, if that’s your bedroom etiquette, we have much to discuss,” he muttered.  But he raised up on an elbow, a small smile lifting his mouth.  He drew his fingers over the taut flesh covering her ribs.    
  
“Mmm.”  She rolled so that she lay on her stomach.  He took her movement as an open invitation and began making little nip-kisses down her spine.  Her legs parted, and he found her deliciously moist.  He tapped at her pearl, inviting it to come out and play.    
  
“Remington?”  
  
“Yes, Laura?”  
  
“I want you.”    
  
He didn’t tease her this time, didn’t having her body writhing in ecstasy a half-dozen times before shouting his climax.  He settled over her and filled her by inches, one slow thrust after another.  Together they climbed, oblivious to their surroundings, conscious only of the melding of one into the other until they found every nerve screaming for release.    
  
Remington tried to keep up the measured pace.  He knew Laura was close.  He could hear it in her soft moans and feel it in the tightening of her buttocks against his skin.  He wanted to feel her body explode under him.  But when she reached out to clasp hands with him, he faltered.  The rhythm took on a mind of its own, and in a moment he found himself at her mercy, thrusting wildly as he had to possess her.  “Mine, Laura, you are mine.  No one will take you away from me.  Not now, not ever.”  He buried himself in her, his body pulsating--then driving yet deeper again as she climaxed and pulled him in.  
  
He tried not to squash her this time, but it wasn’t easy.  Finally, he rolled off and collapsed on the bed, fingers still laced in hers as she turned to lie on her back.    
  
“Bugger it, Laura.  If we’d been doing this for the last four years, the agency would have never been built.”    
  
She laughed under her breath, turning over to look at him.  “That doesn’t bode well for the next four.”   
  
He lazily swept a look along the length of her body; then those blue eyes peered intently into hers.  “No.  But we have four.  And four more.  And four more after that … love.”  He said the last part deliberately.  Laura flushed with pure joy, and Remington began tracing all the freckles that popped out as a result.    
  
She propped her head on her fist.  “So tell me, Remington, what are we going to do now?”  
  
He arched a brow.  “I’ll need your help.”    
  
“Of course.”  
  
  
******  
  
  
With Remington manipulating the security system like a piano player coaxing a beautiful song from the keys, Laura slipped inside Ari Tigano’s house to find his special vault buried deep in the basement.  She noted a small Rembrandt landscape, a priceless Gainsborough portrait, and numerous other pieces missing from the art world.  She snapped photo after photo, then vanished without a trace.    
  
Remington personally developed them and mailed a set to Tigano with a note: _Next time, I’ll let Interpol add you to their collection, and your pretties will be in the museum of my choice.  I’ll enjoy spending the finder’s fee._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I did take liberty with both the placement of a broadcast tower in Caracas, Venezuela and the island’s location. I don’t know if Caracas had cellular phone coverage at that time, but it’s unlikely based on my research. Also, to the best of my knowledge, the string of islands to the north of Venezuela are over twenty miles (not ten) from the city--too far for a broadcast tower of that era to reach.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Slight spoiler, but a clarification before we go any further: Cell phones did exist in 1986. Check out the history on the Motorola DynaTEK 8000x, the model used in this story. More on this later ...


End file.
